Long before I ever drew a house, I learned to pay attention to the land. I grew up on a farm where the seasons set the rhythm of life and every plant had something to teach. You learned their habits. You watched what flourished in shade and what reached for the sun. You noticed color, texture, fragrance, and the quiet way one plant could make another more beautiful simply by growing beside it. Looking back, I realize that much of what I understand about architecture began there, long before I had the language to describe it.
When I designed my home, I placed the garden between the house and my studio. It is a path I walk every day, a place that gently reminds me where my work begins. Before I sit down to draw, I pass through a landscape that is always changing. Spring gives way to summer. Leaves fall. Flowers bloom, then disappear. Every season has something to say. The garden reminds me that beauty is not static. It grows, fades, returns, and asks us to pay attention. I have always believed that architecture should do the same. It should deepen our affection for the natural world, not separate us from it. In many ways, this garden has become my first drawing of the day, a quiet lesson in life, time, and wonder before I ever put pencil to paper.
